


Compression

by ThatLongDarkNight



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens
Genre: Hux is Not Nice, Hux swears a lot, I Didn't Watch The Last Jedi tbh, Kylo Ren is only mostly homicidal, M/M, Not Canon Compliant - Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Pre- Relationship Armitage Hux/ Kylo Ren, Vague plans to continue the story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 08:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14565249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatLongDarkNight/pseuds/ThatLongDarkNight
Summary: This far on the wrong side of Zeta shift, Hux isn’t surprised at the dead silence in the rec room. He’s started the caf machine and slipped a cigarette from its box in his uniform pocket before he sees the puddle of black out of the corner of his eye.It takes him a ridiculous amount of time to realize it’s a person, and still longer to pin them down, because he’s not wearing the mask.He’s never seen Kylo Ren without the mask.





	Compression

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, all! This is my first real try at fanfiction, and I have a second chapter outlined if I decide this first one doesn't suck. I've literally been sitting on this for a year, convinced it wasn't ready but here goes nothing! All feedback is appreciated. <3

_This is going to kill me._

The thought surges up from somewhere in Hux’s chest and curls thick suffocating fingers around his brain. He lets himself feel it heavy on his brow as he sits, staring blank eyed and distant at the blueprints swirling in lazy arcs in front of him. The flagship _Finalizer_ is the most highly advanced in the fleet; it’s efficient air processors keep everything crisp and dry while eliminating even the smallest bacterium, but he still feels gritty and unwashed. How long has he even been awake?

The clock glares red and accusing, numbers bright: 2-3-3-7. Of the next day. He’s been awake for over forty hours. Starkiller aside, he’s far more likely to die of exhaustion if he stays up any longer. He certainly isn’t making any progress on the plans by ramming his head against the duct problem until his mind turns into soup and starts leaking out of his ears. This revision though, is needed, and needed soon. His entire value hinges on getting this insane, ambitious plan off the ground. His fast track to Emperor is not going to be derailed by damned _air circulation_. He won’t give Snoke any reason to even think to execute him. Or worse.

Snoke, who’d appeared from nowhere with nothing but an apprentice and a suspicious, overwhelming amount of funds.

Snoke, who had somehow become the leader of the Order with not a word to the contrary. The few who had perhaps whispered any dissent were found dead in their bunks, not a mark on them. As far as autopsies could determine, they’d simply stopped breathing.

Snoke, who seemed to have taken a keen interest in him. 

_Enough_ , he thinks, wobbling to his feet. A compromise was in order. He could either preserve his original budget or preserve his original plans, and he would give himself the space between now and 0000 to choose before giving in to his need for rest. If he’s going to haul himself all the way back to the sleeping quarters, he’ll need stimulants. So it’s to the officer’s rec for now. The short walk could only be to the good.

And it does help. The perpetual chill of the passageway clears his head enough to shake the lingering sense of doom somewhat and clear the fog from his mind. His brain fairly lurches and groans as it shifts into gear. He’s going to have to sacrifice the budget; there is simply no way he is going to allow the security risk that larger ducts would present. The efficiency will have to be made up some other way- smaller ducts would allow air to be pushed with less energy, but to properly oxygenate such large areas with smaller vents would add a third onto the material costs…

This far on the wrong side of Zeta shift, Hux isn’t surprised at the dead silence in the rec room. He’s started the caf machine and slipped a cigarette from its box in his uniform pocket before he sees the puddle of black out of the corner of his eye.

It takes him a ridiculous amount of time to realize it’s a person, and still longer to pin them down, because he’s not wearing the mask. 

He’s never seen Kylo Ren without the mask.

Ren knows he’s there, going by the tensed shoulders and clenched fist on the tabletop, even as he remains fixed, facing away towards the viewport that offers nothing but the unrelenting void of space. The helmet rests on the table, silver gleaming in the overhead lights. His dark hair tumbles haphazard past his shoulders, rejecting the harsh overhead lights, combining with the robes to turn him almost into a silhouette- another void limited by the lines of his body, consuming only himself. 

_Damn, I’m tired._

He would never have thought that if he wasn’t. It perhaps fit with the impression he’d formed the few times he’d met Kylo Ren previously, though he’d never admit it. A black hole of a man. Easy to spot, smart to avoid, and perilous to ignore. If one were to stray too close destruction would be, _must_ be the only result. Goodness knew he’d mangled enough equipment in his rages, to Snoke’s incomprehensible pride and Hux’s own contempt. They were in a _spaceship_ ; if he punched a hole through the hull they were all dead, Force or no Force. The man was a fool, and he’d be lucky to die one day without taking the whole lot of them with him. And yet- 

Hux lit his cigarette and brought it up to inhale. The caf machine clunked and whirred as it came to a stop, task complete.

And yet.

He was tired, he told himself. Beyond exhaustion. That was the only reason he could imagine for taking the steaming cup of caf and placing it by that trembling fist. Hux didn’t attempt to look at his face, kept well behind the man to make that clear, and lifted his hand to his cigarette instead to exhale a long, slow, steady stream of smoke.

He considered speaking for the briefest moment, but in the end left the room with the silence unbroken. 

Left him sitting there alone.  
\---  
Weeks go by.

The next time he saw Kylo Ren was in passing- him going one way, Ren the opposite. 

Neither spared the other a glance.  
\---  
Hux stood in his office, supposedly practicing his speech but in reality staring into thin air.

Today was the final presentation of his building plans for what he had deemed Starkiller. He’d been taught at a young age that apprehension was for the weak minded and so apprehension was not what he felt. _It is a mere formality in any case._ The other Generals were all aware of the project and the fact that Supreme Leader Snoke wished for Starkiller to become a reality. No one would speak a word to denigrate his work. And even if they dared, there was nothing to say. His work was impeccable. He was a prodigy. He would go down in history, his name a legend. Nothing would stand before him.

No one would dare defy him. 

He straightened his uniform and looked in the mirror, picking a stray thread off the black fabric, nudging his medals into meticulous order, polishing the top button of his dress jacket to match the dark gleam of the others standing neat and proud down his front. The copper taste of blood rose up in his mouth; he opened it and saw no red, just the white of his teeth and the pink flash of tongue as he ran it over them to make sure. Nothing- but the taste stayed fresh and bitter even as he strode out the barracks, up the hallways, into the grand throne room where the image of Snoke awaited. 

As he entered, he saw the other officers stood in ranks off to his left, and by Snoke’s right side, swallowed by shadow, was the dark figure of Kylo Ren. There was no fear, just the fierce thrill of a hunt almost ended, a fight close to won. And the blood, always the blood. He knelt and bowed his head, not daring to look up until he was acknowledged. He had seen a man be punished for that once. Just once.

“You may rise, General.” The rough, low voice passed through him like a chill wind as always. The other officers quivered as well, a minute sway backward that was nevertheless amplified by the rows upon rows of bodies it affected. Only Kylo Ren stayed unmoved. Hux stood.

“Supreme Leader, It is my privilege to present you with the completed plans for Starkiller Base.” A wave of his hand, and the scale replica came into being in a flash of light. “As I stated, it will be an adaptive weapon capable of widespread destruction while also serving as both a central location for troops, and a command center that will be entirely under First Order control.” Hux didn’t let his eyes waver as he lay out the minutiae of his life’s work. He kept his gaze direct on Snoke while he broke down the budget, his breathing calm while he gave the estimated completion time, held his head high and proud as he spoke on the required workforce. He forced every limb, every muscle, to stay still when Snoke hissed a sibilant laugh.

“Do any here have questions? A protest, perhaps?” No one spoke.

“And you, General? You say you will complete this project?”

Hux bowed his head, packing up his triumph and shelving it for a safer time. “I will.”

“Very good, General. You have proved my trust in you well placed.”

He bowed his head once more. “You honor me, Supreme Leader.”

The huge figure on the throne lifted his hand in a lazy gesture. “And you will receive still more honor. I name you my Commandant and First General; my Left hand, even as Kylo Ren is my Right. You will conduct all necessary business of the First Order and be my ultimate authority in all military matters. You will report directly to me and take all your instruction directly from me.”

For a moment Hux was frozen, held immobile by shock. Then he knelt once more, making sure to keep his face hidden. The dismay he felt might well be visible to those with the eyes to see. Perhaps, for a moment, he had felt the elation that had been intended. _First General. Commandant._ He had just been given so much power. _Left Hand. Directly to me._ He’d just had so much power taken away. It was a fine sugar in which to dip the bitter poison. Snoke had created a position especially for him. It was genius. It was a ruination of all Hux’s planning. 

He had in one stroke isolated Hux from his peers, monopolized all of Hux’s skills, and pulled the First Order even more securely under his control. His mind clicked through possibilities. How often would he be forced to report? What tasks might he be made to carry out? What the hell did Snoke plan to do with him?

“I can never repay such generosity, Supreme Leader.” His voice came out smooth and controlled, to his relief. He could hardly afford to seem weak now that such a large target had been placed upon his back.

“Indeed, you cannot.” Snoke seemed amused. “All you need do is never disappoint me, _Commandant._ That will be repayment enough. Rise.”

Hux stood once more and held his face still and calm. “I shall.”  
\---  
Hux doesn’t even make it halfway down the hall before one of the officers catches up with him. Thankfully, it’s Phasma, one of the least likely to try and kill him. Her brutal forthrightness and his cold practicality often resulted in efficient, genial teamwork. He would almost say they were compatriots, if not for the utter lack of trust on either side. 

“Sir, what the fuck just happened? Did you know?” She murmurs, voice lowered still more by the plastoid helmet.

“I had no idea, and I still don’t.” Hux replies. “Ask me again in a month, if Snoke hasn’t disposed of me by then.”

She paces beside him in silence for a moment, and then says, “Not just Snoke. A lot of people won’t be happy about this.”

“They can damn well get in line.” He snaps back. Sometime after the word _commandant_ had passed Snoke’s lips, a sharp chunk of ice had lodged just below his collarbone and refused to thaw. It cuts loose the words that he tried to keep locked in his chest.

Phasma is at least a safe audience. She only barks a short laugh. 

“You’ll need protection.”

She is completely right, but Hux feels a surge of resentment anyway. Guards surrounding him day and night is maybe the second to last thing he might ever want in his life. 

“I will.” Bitter words seemed to be the only ones he could speak today. 

Phasma doesn’t comment on it, which is one of the many reasons he almost likes her. She just nods and says, “I’ll arrange it. Watch your back, Sir.”

From almost anyone else, it would have been a threat. He nods. “I always do, Captain.”

Phasma makes the left for the troop quarters, likely to gather up her subordinates and make the announcement of his new status. 

He keeps going straight, perhaps hurrying a bit faster than he otherwise might. His dress uniform has no room whatsoever for his knives, and he has the feeling that he’s going to need them.  
\---  
Hux has time to change, use the bathroom, slip his knives in their holsters, and quietly panic at how his plans have gone up in flames for about five minutes before he has to handle an influx of people. The vast majority are Generals- he supposes they are Second Generals now- and other assorted officers. They officially arrive to congratulate him on his new post, but more likely have come to feel out any potential weaknesses and jockey for position. _Surely you will need a second._ They say. _You must plan to promote the deserving, yes?_ The whole afternoon is eaten up by their smiles and insinuations.

Lieutenant Mitaka heads a small contingent of the Engineering crew that arrives sometime during Epsilon shift, worried and working hard to hide it. Hux reassures them that he will still personally oversee the Engineering Division as he has been and head up the Starkiller Project as planned. He’ll light himself on fire before he gives up a single iota of control over his legacy. The very idea makes his heart pound in rage.

He takes a moment after that to splash his face and breathe, slow and deep.

The quartermaster pings the door for entry last. Hux gives himself a precious few seconds to regain his composure before he answers. As it glides open, the man blinks and Hux doesn’t have time to properly contemplate why before he is told in no uncertain terms. He cannot wear the standard uniform he has on now. His unprecedented rank requires clothing to reflect it and it will be black of course but if the Commandant had any requests-

“A coat.”

The man blinks again. It could get quite annoying, given time. Less the action itself, than what he seems to mean by it.

“Your pardon, Commandant? A coat?”

Hux thinks of the frigid corridors, and his knives, and his poisoned new title.

“Yes. A coat. Large enough to cover neck to ankle. The middle should have a lining of plastoid, as flexible as you can get it. Interior pockets.” The quartermaster looks dismayed. He clearly hadn’t visualized such a thing as part of his design. Hux narrows his eyes. “Everything else I leave to your discretion to be appropriate to my station.” The man nods, less than pleased but nonetheless placated. It will have to do. Compromise- the essence of politics.

“Yes Commandant. It shall be as you wish, Commandant.” Hux wishes he would stop calling him that. Every time, he hears Snoke saying it instead, and that shard of ice jostles in his chest. The quartermaster makes to leave, but Hux stops him with a motion of his hand and regret in his heart.

“I’ll need new quarters.”

“Oh-” The man begins, blinks, and reconsiders. “Of course, Commandant. What do you require?”

“It must be away from other residences, with the ability to set its own security, preferably an end unit.”

Blink, blink goes the quartermaster. He at least has the intelligence to pull out his data terminal and begin scanning. Otherwise, Hux’s first act as Commandant would be to fire the man and replace him with a trash compactor. At least the compactor would serve its function in silence.

“Ah, Commandant-” he clears his throat. “The only unit that fits your requirements is Floor G, Unit 73… the hall however has one other occupant...” Like Hux cares. He’ll happily boot them out and give them his old quarters. “... Kylo Ren, Sir- um, Commandant.”

“Sir is fine, quartermaster,” Hux says, more focused on cursing internally than whatever is coming out of his mouth. Of course it is the one person he cannot move by force. _Compromise_. “Unit 73 will suffice. Have it cleared out and ready by Beta shift tomorrow. Dismissed.”

“Yes, Sir!” And then, thank fuck, the man is gone, taking his bad news with him. It’s not that he thinks he can’t handle Kylo Ren. It might well even work in his favor- people will be far less likely to try and attack him if they have to go anywhere near the man. It will just require more finesse to avoid contact himself. Hux can handle that. He can handle anything he has to.

Of course, he’s just sentenced himself to another night without sleep. Not only does he have to consolidate his things before Beta shift and move them- he doesn’t trust a single soul but his own to handle his belongings- he cannot afford to rest. Anyone smart enough to know he’ll up security as soon as possible or stupid enough to be affected by their anger will strike tonight.

He could contact Phasma and set up a temporary guard. He _should_ do that. The thought of eyes watching, ears listening, make him grimace. He’d rather take his chances tonight. One last night of relative freedom. 

He glances around his quarters. In his current situation, it’s a killbox; small and utilitarian, the tiny receiving room as acknowledgement of his rank to hold meetings in. One way in and out of the bunk room adjoining the tiny bathroom. The officer’s quarters to either side are much the same. It’s dangerous to stay, and he’ll hardly miss it. No reason to linger. Unbidden, he smells roses, feels sun prickling his face. He shoves the sense memory away. 

Home is another thing he won’t miss.  
\---  
Hux finishes packing with a weary sigh. Not one to leave much to chance, he’s scrubbed every room as he left it, smoothing away fingerprints and keeping a keen eye out for loose hair. Paranoia has served him well in his time, and he’s not about to stop now. He piles his bags-there are only three- by the door, then tilts his head in consideration. He can’t properly stay here now that he’s sanitized it without undoing all his hard work. His office is even less secure, one room and one door, and a well known haunt of his besides- a gas bomb and a lock override would see him quite dead. Perhaps he’ll just keep moving.

He’ll have to vet security tomorrow first thing, he thinks. Phasma would be certain to have a squad picked out for him, but he’ll look them over himself as well. Then he could keep to something like his routine without all this ridiculous skittering around. He hefts his bags- one over his shoulder, one in each hand- and starts walking. His office should be secure enough to temporarily store his belongings if he himself is not in it. 

He comes across no one on the walk over and he frowns, shivering a bit in the blasted chill. It’s possible, he supposes, that he’s on the wrong end of a few guard rotations, but he should have seen at least one set now that he’s two doors up from his office.

He doesn’t like it. 

He keeps his pace even, shifting his bags so he has one hand free at least, even if it encumbers one side. He can always drop the bags. The door beeps as it authorizes entry and he carefully stands to one side of the door as it slides open.

Nothing.

Hux flips on the light and moves quickly, clearing the corners, behind the door, under the desk…

Nothing.

He isn’t eased in the slightest. He does deposit his things inside and reseal the door before leaving, because it can only help to be free of the burden. He palms a knife, glad to have them, as he paces his way through the common rooms. He much prefers to spring a trap when he suspects one is heading his way than to wait and see what his adversaries have planned.

He doesn’t find a trap.

What he does find is Kylo Ren once more in the Officer rec room with his mask off, staring into the vacuum of space.

Hux smothers his automatic jolt. It’s ridiculous- he knew people preferred to avoid the man, but to clear an entire wing of the station in fear of him? Someone had to be around. This time of evening at least a few stragglers like him go for a late dinner, right? 

What was the time? 

2345 hours. 

He glares at the little timepiece on the wall. At this rate, he’ll simply stop sleeping altogether to be done with the farce.

Feeling an eerie sense of deja vu, he uses his off hand to pick a cigarette from his pocket and sets it to his mouth. His right still clutches the knife. He takes the auto-light from his pocket and presses it to the end of the smoke. He’s coming down from the adrenaline of an expected fight, so the slight tremor in his fingers annoys but doesn’t surprise him. 

During this interlude Kylo Ren stays still, frozen really. Hux can't even detect his breathing. His shoulders are tense, like before, but his hand lay loose on the table. He had one foot on the floor and the other on his knee in what would be a relaxed pose but for the frigid aura of wariness and warning emanating from him in steady waves. 

Too bad Hux is fresh out of shits. He shimmies the knife back into his forearm holster and sits facing away from the other man, mirrors the pose in the opposite direction. He lifts the cigarette away from his lips to let out a plume of smoke. If Ren wanted him gone, he could Force throw him through the wall to tell him so. Until then, he was about as safe as he could get, because only a madman would willingly be alone in the same room as Kylo Ren with his helmet off. No one on the station had ever seen his face, despite rampant speculation. 

Hux doesn’t particularly want to. He takes another drag of the cigarette. He had learned early on in life that masks were put on for good reason, and one rarely wanted to see what was behind them. His mother’s, in particular, was masterfully crafted and concealed multitudinous sins.

Inhale, exhale. Hux puts out the stub on the brushed steel of the table and pockets it. No point in making a mess, after all. 

Fuck, it’s late. Fuck, he’s tired.

He lays his arm against the table, and his head on his arm.

_This is going to kill me._

And likely it would, if he couldn’t get ahold of whatever advantages his sudden elevation in status might afford him. Either his brand new subordinates would kill him, or Snoke would, or he’d work himself to death. Any which way, it didn’t look like he’d be getting any more damned _rest_.

He drops off between one mental invective and the next.  
\---  
He startles awake in violent fashion to the heavy tread of a boot, _knife in his hand and blood on his teeth,_ jumping up only to see the retreating void of Kylo Ren’s back as the door closes behind him. It take him a moment of suspense before he realizes there is no threat. He allows himself one quiet _fuck_ as he slumps back into the chair, his heart battering against his ribs. He tries to even out his shaky breathing.

_What time is it?_

0500.

He’d been out for hours? And Kylo Ren had let him stay? He must have hallucinated it, must have lost his mind for a moment to even consider it a possibility-

A cup of caf sat innocuously on his table. Hux picked it up. 

It was warm to the touch.


End file.
